


Taming The Monster

by sirona



Series: That Boy Is A Monster [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Barebacking, Clint Barton is a great boyfriend, Dildos, Established Relationship, Fantasy Fulfilment, Lots of Sex, M/M, Pheeeeels, Phil Coulson's giant cock, Sequel, Snuggling, past rejection, post-coital Clint is the best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:25:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil steps over two little cotton balls of black socks, pushes the door open with a finger to find what he expects, a pair of boxer-briefs pointing like an arrow to the bed, where—</p><p>Oh. That Phil did not expect <i>at all</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taming The Monster

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to the sex-drenched _That Boy Is A Monster_. You don't have to have read that to fully experience this fic, but it helps. 
> 
> There is sex in this. So much sex. Mostly sex, actually. Ahem.
> 
> Many thanks go to 17Pansies, who _ruined my life_ by spamming my inbox with ideas about this fic, so much so that I HAD to write it.
> 
> Er. Sorry about the title? The people who should have known better and discouraged me from using it...didn't. >.>

Phil pushes the door to his apartment closed behind him, turning the key in the lock with a definite sense of relief. It has been a long week, meeting after meeting as he and Nick hammered out the finer details on the Avengers initiative. Come to think of it, it’s been a long _month_ \-- a week spent babysitting Stark ( _again_ ), another week wasted in New Mexico, then Clint had been loaned out to one of the alphabet agencies that more often than not made their lives more difficult, but whom they couldn’t refuse. Frankly, now that Phil has somehow achieved two whole days off, he does not plan to leave the apartment for anything. He only wishes he had Clint with him, but if Phil’s lucky, Clint might wrap up his assignment tomorrow and swing by. 

(Phil always feels lucky when Clint manages to spend time with him. It’s been a few months since the op in Ukraine and the dramatic events afterwards, and Clint still hasn’t gotten sick of him, of all the damn planning they have to do every time they go to bed. It’s enough to make Phil believe in divine assistance again.)

He rests his briefcase on the bench by the door, toes off his shoes – which is the moment when he realizes that not everything is as he left it this morning; the nook next to the door to the living room now contains a pair of unlaced combat boots, scuffed and broken in and intensely familiar. Phil starts to smile.

The bow case on the living room table, considerably better cared for than the boots, only makes his smile widen. He leaves his briefcase next to it, taking a second to admire the tableau before his attention is snagged by a pair of black tac suit pants lying in a puddle on the floor, followed by a wrinkled t-shirt two feet farther away. They dot the path to the bedroom like breadcrumbs that Phil is helpless to resist, even less when his ears catch a stifled whimper coming from behind the half-closed door. He steps over two little cotton balls of black socks, pushes the door open with a finger to find what he expects, a pair of boxer-briefs pointing like an arrow to the bed, where—

Oh. That Phil did not expect _at all_.

Unsurprising, since he doesn’t think he could ever expect _this_. Just like he never expected Clint, never thought someone he had known for years could surprise him like that out of the blue, never thought he would ever have what he has now, the instant connection gone deeper, until he doesn’t know where he ends and Clint begins anymore.

He never expected, never dared to hope that someone could accept him as he is, _everything_ he is, and want all of him. Never imagined that after so many years of being looked at like a freak, like he was not worth the effort, there could be this one person to waltz into his life and not just take him, but actively _demand_ Phil gives him everything he has. He never thought that instead of being looked at with caution, with apprehension, he could be looked at with naked lust in a man’s eyes. 

(If you get told over and over again that you are unnatural, that you could never fit, that you couldn’t keep someone safe; if for years you have people balking at seeing you, that thing between your legs, and backpedal as fast as their feet would carry them, eventually you begin to believe that you _are_ unnatural. That no one could want you enough to put in the effort to work around it – or with it.

Clinton Francis Barton is a revelation in every way, and Phil knows that, all too well.)

Still, Phil did not ever expect to come home and find Clint in his bed, naked as the day he was born, spread out on his sheets with his knees drawn to his chest, the most enormous purple dildo that Phil has ever seen buried halfway inside his ass.

Phil realizes his mouth has gone entirely dry when he tries to speak and only manages a hoarse croak. Clint’s eyes flutter open, fixing him with a hazy look, pupils blown, lips shining and wet.

“Hey, you’re home,” Clint says, slow and drugged, voice sex-drenched like Phil will never, _ever_ get tired of hearing it. “Hope you don’t mind that I got started. It’s been so long, and honestly, I’ve been dreaming about this and winding myself up for _days_. I want you _now_ , right now, Phil; just drop trou and get inside me. Think you can do that?”

Phil cannot answer. Not because he doesn’t know what to say (there is only _one_ answer he can give, only one answer there _is_ to a question like that), but because he can’t speak for the lump in his throat, the desire suddenly scalding through his veins. 

How did Clint know? How could he have guessed that this is Phil’s deepest, most obsessive fantasy, to be able to just go for it, crawl over Clint, hold his legs up and apart until he’s wide open, and push right inside him with nothing more than a layer of lube over his cock? 

Clint groans, deep and intense, the muscles of his arm working as he pushes the dildo deeper. It’s thick, so thick that watching it slide into Clint’s ass makes sweat break out all over Phil’s skin, until it feels like the temperature in the room just spiked by ten degrees. There is so much lube everywhere that Clint’s entire ass is covered in it, shiny trails trickling into the sheets, his balls slick and heavy above where the dildo pushes insistently inside. It’s maybe a few millimeters smaller than Phil’s cock when it’s fully erect, looks about as long as him. Seeing it like this, from afar, makes Phil feel a curious mix of apprehension and blinding lust. 

Clint, however, does not seem to mind. He has never seemed to mind, not even from the first moment when he saw what Phil really carried underneath his suits. No, Clint is looking at him from under lowered lashes, mouth pouting open on a sigh as the fingers of his right hand tease at a nipple, squeezing and tugging while his other hand works the dildo in and out of him. His cock is flushed and rock-hard against his stomach, a small pool of pre-come gathered under its head. Phil watches another droplet leak out and join the flow, and wonders how long Clint has been at this for there to be so much. The way the dildo slides into Clint’s body, he thinks it might have been a while, half an hour at least. Half an hour of teasing himself open, stretching himself, so that Phil can walk in and open his pants and fuck right into him.

A strangled sound escapes his throat. His skin tingles everywhere, over-sensitive and needy. He loves Clint so much that he can’t verbalise it, can’t explain, can’t even hold it in, away from his face.

“Well, sir?” Clint says, the giant tease. “How about it? Don’t you want me? Don’t you wanna just unzip and sink inside me? I’m ready for you, I promise, I made sure. Here, come check for yourself.”

And then the bastard _slicks up a finger on the pre-come on his stomach and actually pushes the tip of it inside his ass, alongside the purple monster_ , and Phil loses what was left of his mind.

He is suddenly on the bed, kneeling in front of Clint. He does not know how he got there, does not know where his jacket is, how his pants came to pool around his knees, knows only that Clint’s eyes are wide and hungry and full of challenge; that there are hands on his arms drawing him nearer, until he can crush his mouth on Clint’s, lick inside, fuck it with his tongue like he’s about to do to Clint’s body. Clint’s legs come up to curl around him, holding him close in the space where Phil feels most himself, spread over Clint’s body, as close as they can get. His cock strokes against Clint’s and Clint arches into him, the base of the dildo catching on Phil’s balls gone tight with arousal, making him thrust against the soft, slick, hot skin under him. 

“Just do it,” Clint pants against his mouth when Phil pulls back. “Take the dildo out and fuck me, come on, Phil, I want you so much.”

So Phil does. He reaches between them, lets the inside of his wrist slide over Clint’s cock until he writhes under him, takes hold of the base of the dildo and slowly draws it out, pausing every now and again to angle it just so, making Clint gasp and moan and beg, head thrown back and baring that muscled, gorgeous neck to Phil’s mouth. Phil kind of wants to watch the dildo slide out, but at the same time what he wants more is to watch himself push inside Clint’s ass, watch it take him inch after huge inch. He can’t get over it, how Clint’s body yields to him so easily, so _eagerly_. It’s so much more than he has ever experienced before.

The head of the purple cock slips out with a wet squelch, and Phil doesn’t even pause, does not let himself default to second-guessing every move. Clint is so wet that Phil doesn’t need to add more slick; he just takes himself in hand, lines up the head and pushes in. The muscles give around him like butter, and he flexes his hips until he is sheathed all the way inside, balls resting against the scorching hot rim of Clint’s ass twitching around him. There is no resistance, no clenching, no tension – just a warm, tight heat that surrounds him and holds him close; just Clint’s sighs and moans in his ears, just Clint’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers digging into his shirt to pull him closer. 

“Oh, god,” Clint whispers brokenly. “Oh, yes. This. My god, this is _amazing_. Jesus, you feel so good. So huge and hot and perfect inside me, you fill me up so tight, I never feel so whole like when your dick plugs me up.”

Phil is dimly aware that he is shaking in Clint’s arms. He can safely say, hand to heart, that he has never felt this way during sex before. There is a kind of effervescence bursting inside him when he looks down into Clint’s open, happy eyes, when Clint arches up to kiss him, wrapping his legs around his hips again – higher now, curling around his ribs, and Jesus, Phil never thought he would be so grateful for all that time Clint spent in the circus when he was a kid. He is without a doubt the most athletic lover Phil has ever had – and Clint uses it mercilessly, delighting in blowing Phil’s mind. 

“You are,” he murmurs into Clint’s neck, kissing and nipping at the salty skin. “You’re…” There are no words to describe what Clint is to him.

Clint chuckles, nudging his head up to nip at Phil’s lips. “Amazing, right?” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. “My ass is magic, I know.”

“Entirely too much of an ass, yes,” Phil agrees dryly, snapping his hips forward. Clint lets out this choked scream, and for a second, just a tiny second, every single blood cell in Phil’s body freezes up in terror – that he’s hurt him, that he shouldn’t have let himself go like that; that he should have known better. 

It passes just as quickly as it came over him, much faster these days than it had at the start, when Clint has spent so much of his time coaxing Phil over his insecurities. For all that Clint is a mouthy asshole with the tact of an angry mama bear, he has also been a damn saint over this whole thing.

He cares very much, is the point, and Phil has made a real effort to believe that, to trust Clint to know his limits and tell him when he needs things going slower (or faster).

“You love it, sir,” Clint drawls smugly, lifting his lower body off the bed in an abs crunch that shorts out Phil’s mind and arching into his cock, taking him even deeper. This is insane; surely Phil can go no further. 

“Hey, pull out for a minute,” Clint says. Phil evaluates the stress markers in his voice and concludes that this is Clint with something on his mind, not Clint bearing discomfort silently, like he tends to when he doesn’t want to call attention to his injuries. So Phil does as he’s asked, sits back on his heels and lets himself sink into the kiss that Clint presses on him before turning on his knees, back a long, deliciously muscled line to Phil’s gaze, flexing when he curls his hands on the headboard of Phil’s bed and dips his shoulders, widens his knees. His hole is red and puffy, wet with lube, and Phil can’t help himself; he strokes a finger over it, catches it with the edge of a blunt thumbnail, smiles darkly when Clint jerks and swears under his breath, muscles clenching. 

“Are you trying to kill me here?” Clint growls, and just for that, Phil is tempted to put his mouth on him, lick inside until Clint is shouting abuse at him and riding his tongue. 

He doesn’t, because Clint has clearly spent the last hour or so putting his body through tease after tease, all because he wanted to give Phil this, a gift of mind-melting sensation, of letting go, giving in to his desires, not having to hold himself back. Phil is not the kind of man to squander something so precious.

When he sinks back inside Clint, pressing in until his groin is flush to Clint’s perfect ass, Clint lets out a sigh that seems to come from his toes. His back arches until his cheek is pressed into the pillow, until he has no leverage to move but what Phil gives hm. Phil fucks into him again and again, finds the perfect angle and levels punishing strokes into it until Clint is muffling screams into his pillow, his whole body wound up so tight it’s shaking. 

“Please,” he keeps moaning, “oh, please, Phil, so good, you’re _so good, please_.”

Let’s be honest here: Phil will _never_ not try to give Clint anything and everything he asks for. He releases his death grip on Clint’s right hip, watches the white fingermarks bleed back to a flushed red print the size of his palm, bites his own lip as he reaches under them and takes Clint’s dick in hand. He closes his fingers tight around the hard, wet length, fucks into Clint hard enough to push him into the hold, doesn’t try to stifle his desperate, rumbling groans when it makes Clint shakes apart on him. Clint’s ass clenches tight; his cock jerks in Phil’s hand, spreading sticky wetness over his knuckles while Clint moans like he’s dying, hoarse and unguarded and shameless in its abandon, and really, does Phil have any choice when his body feels like there is a supernova lighting on fire inside him? He comes and comes, deep inside where he has it on good authority only he has ever reached, and yeah, he can’t stop the possessive flare in his chest, the kind that makes him snap his hips and try to push deeper, even though there is no way he can reach farther than he already has. 

“Yeah, baby,” Clint mutters, knees sliding over the sheets until he is lying in the wet spot, hands uncurling from their white-knuckled hold and flopping down onto the pillow. “No one does it like Agent Phil Coulson, and that’s the truth.”

Phil feels himself flush all over, so much so he feels a little dizzy from the confusion to his blood flow. He pulls out, wincing at Clint’s whimper, takes the time to perform his customary check on Clint’s body just to make sure. He knows Clint thinks he is being ridiculous, but Clint doesn’t protest, and Phil loves him even more for it, honestly does not know how he got this lucky.

“All good at the back end?” Clint murmurs; Phil slaps a hand to his face, appalled – and, as always, full of so much fondness his breathing hitches for a second.

“Yes,” he says, deadpan. “You’re still as much of an ass as you’ve ever been.”

“Excellent,” Clint purrs, stretching sleepily. Phil watches that magnificent body flex as he tugs off his tie, unbuttons his shirt and bullies Clint to turn over so he can use it to mop at the mess left under Clint’s chest and stomach. Clint rolls right back when he’s done, humming contentedly. He buries his face in his pillow, arms sliding beneath to plump it for maximum comfort. Phil stands, shucks the rest of his clothes and throws everything in the hamper in the bathroom, then takes the time to clean himself up – and raise a resigned eyebrow at the goofy smile he sees in the mirror. 

“Get over here and warm me up,” Clint demands sleepily from the bedroom, once he has apparently decided Phil has had enough time to himself. Phil rolls his eyes but goes, because there are few things he enjoys more in the world than post-coital Clint in his arms, pliant and clingingly affectionate, unhesitantly wrapping himself around Phil until Phil can _feel_ the long-frozen pieces of him thawing, surprised and grateful and inexorably inclined to soppily worship this amazing man.

Clint hums when Phil crawls back into the bed, waiting until Phil is settled before assuming his favorite position with his head tucked under Phil’s chin. Since that is also Phil’s favorite position, Phil does not mind one bit.

“I’ve been thinking,” Clint murmurs after long enough that Phil thought him asleep.

“Barton, what have we said about you doing that,” Phil says, mock-severely. He gets a sharp nip on his collarbone in retaliation, before Clint goes on.

“No, really. I’ve been thinking that it’s really disturbing that you’ve still got these hang-ups about your frankly _awesome_ dick. And we’ve got this dildo now, you like it, right? I chose it special. So we could—I could show you what it’s like? If you wanted? It’s so good, Phil, it’s like nothing else in the world, and it’s, I find it so sad that you don’t know that.”

Clint doesn’t look at him, but he is perfectly relaxed in Phil’s arms, heartbeat steady and strong. Phil doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. 

“That…might be beneficial,” he admits. He’s not sure how he feels about it; Clint has fucked him before, and god, did Phil _enjoy_ that. And if Clint’s doing this, willing to take it almost every night, shouldn’t Phil know what it really feels like? 

He has always done better when he has all the facts at his disposal.

“Sure,” he says, making up his mind. “Let’s do it.”

He had thought that Clint was relaxed before, but now the guy goes boneless over him, tucking himself tighter against Phil’s body and letting out this happy little purr that makes Phil’s entire body tingle. 

“Awesome,” Clint drawls, muffling a yawn into Phil’s shoulder before dragging his teeth over the skin, Phil presumes just because it’s right there. Phil hums in response, smiles and strokes Clint’s hair for a little while, before stretching out his leg to snag the fleece blanket usually resting at the foot of the bed and kick it up until Clint can reach it and hand it over. Phil spreads it on top of them, tucks in the sides, and then pushes his fingers back into Clint’s hair where they seem to feel happiest. 

He has trusted Clint about everything else so far, every part of him that Clint had asked for handed over with no hesitation and zero regrets. He can trust him in this, too.

**Author's Note:**

> There will be a third part in this verse. Eventually. When I have recovered from writing _all this filthy porn_ and am ready for more. So to speak.


End file.
